8 small red boxes
by Carla Moore
Summary: Still not very good with summary's so please don't judge with out reading! Fem-John. Jane comes home to 221b to find one small red box sitting in the flat. Inspired by a romantic web site Sherlock seems to have put together a rather odd scavenger hunt, but what will be the prize? Warning: Fluff
1. Chapter 1

**Alright this is a re wright of the first chapter. I hadn't even realized people were actually reading this story and to be frank, I forgot about the account altogether. Anyway, here it is!**

I walk briskly down the street the freezing London air biting into my exposed skin and even though the think jacket I threw on in a hurried flurry this morning. I wasn't expecting the weather to get this cold, but then again one doesn't usually expect anything much when they find a dead tiger shark laying in their sitting room.

No, my mind wasn't exactly on the upcoming weather. but then again, when was it ever?

Living with Sherlock is like a roller coaster on a particularly foggy day. It's all ups and downs and upside downs with the horrifying knowledge that you have no idea what's two feet in front of you. And even if you hate roller coasters, want to leave and never look back; you can't.

Because after Sherlock Holmes life is never the same.

Or rather you're not the same it it.

So, no matter what I tell people when they evidently ask why I put with with such a person as Sherlock Holmes, that's why I stay. And because I love him, but at the moment that's an entirely different subject. Or at least thats what I keep telling myself instead of exploring the probability I may have misjudged the depth of an eight month romantic relationship. Or perhaps misjudged their being a relationship of that sort whatsoever.

But I'm not thinking about that ring now. I'm angry at the idiotic genius for putting dead thing is my sitting room and then having the nerve to pull me out of a perfectly pleasant coffee with an old friend for unnamed 'urgent' pleasantries. Not that there is much of a chance things would be pleasant when I got there.

It wasn't as if I could simply ignore his texts. Well I could, but that's really beside the point. When Sherlock contacts me there is always a reason behind it. Now, weather that reason actually has important or is as simple as a request for my phone or a midday shag I can never seem to tell. So I'm stuck serving his beck and call like a loyal puppy always at his side and nothing close to the girlfriend I so desperately want to be.

I pull my jacket closer to my body; bending my head down slightly and pulling my arms closer to myself, almost subconsciously conserving body heat. the wind keeps wiping my fee blond hair in all directions, a particularly; annoying bunch keeps falling periodically on my face. It seems as though I really can't win, today event the atmosphere itself doesn't appreciate my existence.

My annoyed steps are lost in the flurry of urban ambiance as it turn on baker street. without the full fledged crowd of people that surrounded me during the previous leg of my route the cold and seemingly dropping temperatures hit me at full force. I almost go reeling back into the masses I've left but the warmth and satisfaction of reaching our fault than having a proper one sided row with Sherlock before storming out to meet with a few friends to drink and most definitely sulk is far too appealing.

I'm in that kind of mood today.

The door to 221 B Baker street is slightly ajar when i arrive. a sliver of our home shines through the open crack. A claw of fear shoots to my heart sinking its ebony marble talents of dread into the beating muscle.

I move up the creaking steps taking them two at a time. My previous anger at the detective replace by fear for him. While sometimes I feel like killing the man myself I can't deny the depth to which i care for him. The gut wrenching pace at which my heart beats in my chest now is proof enough of that.

I pause when I reach the old wooden door of my home, what will I find when i enter? Will I be commanded by the smooth baritone to 'run' or with this be the beginning of an adventure I may not want to embark on?

Has he not called me home for an emergency or request, but to tell me that the love i harbor for him in not requited.

I push open the door, the slow creak of it un molded hinges creaking loudly to find….our flat. The sitting room, not lacking dead corpses, isn't ransacked quite the opposite actually. When I enter I find the surfaces dusted, and mound of papers straitened and even put away.

And on the table the just hours previously was riddled with scientific equipment, sits one small red box.


	2. Chapter 2

**Alright, this is CHAPTER TWO! Woop woop! I was going to post it later but I figure I'd let you all know I was alive, and now actually writing this story. Okay so I rewrote chapter one and if you haven't read it yet you should because I like it much better than the first one. Anyway ONWARD TO CHAPTER TWO!**

The small red box sits on the otherwise empty table leering at me, it's pristine edges like a sickly knowing smirk.

He called me home for a…box?

The anger that had bubbled with in me has dissipated completely into a dull ache of fear for the man I had previously been prepared to rip apart. Was this some sort of clue, a silent plea for help from a person who had the overbearingly tendency to get himself in troublesome situations? Or perhaps it's a message of some kind, a convenient way to get rid of the annoying tag-a-long? I also wouldn't put it past Sherlock to devise some elaborate experiment to play with my head, but what could a small box have to do with that? But maybe that's what I'm supposed to think, or maybe it's not. See it's happening already and I haven't even opened it yet!

Or it could be jest a box, maybe, just maybe this once, it's just a box.

What am I talking about? I live with Sherlock Holmes consulting man child! Little red boxes are never just slightly adorable and romantically colored boxes. I'd probably be closer to assume that the fate of the world resided in the lone box on the table.

Now that all the scientific equipment that usually resides on the surface of our kitchen table has mysteriously disappeared I can clearly see the marred surface for the first time since I moved in. It's riddled with blotches of discoloration, no doubt from Chemical substances, and varying intensities of scratches. It reminds me of an old man, every wrinkle and imperfection telling a peace of a story. It's like a set of eyes that have seen and lived a lifetime. In this case of course old memories and a life well lived are represented by the tornado of cars and mars coating the surface.

It occurs to me that since I've moved into 221 I've probably never seen the flat as clean as it is now. It seems as though it's always cluttered with various objects that Sherlock brings home. It certainly doesn't help that Sherlock is a bit of a hoarder when it comes to odd knick knacks. Between having an actual occupation and keeping the sometimes sweet and sometimes not so much detective alive cleaning tends to slip my mind.

Surely Sherlock didn't do this; He's not really the type to do something as 'Mundane' as housework, is he? No, of course not , we're talking about a man who legitimately doesn't eat when working a case for fear of being slowed down.

Not exactly serious boyfriend husband material.

I'm not entirely sure where that thought came from, but the more I think about it the more I wonder what I've gotten myself into. Not that I in a million years would ever, could ever regret meeting Sherlock Holmes, but what the hell was I thinking?

Why did I, a reasonably attractive (in my opinion anyway) single woman move in with a strong and obviously agile single man who several others labels as psychopathic? Taken out of the context of my own situation it sounds completely bonkers. Like a recipe for disaster if I'm being completely honest.

But thinking back I can't remember a moment at which any of this even crossed my mind. And considering who I am, that's quiet discomforting.

When I was a child I was always a planner; sometimes even scheduling my days down almost to the minute. I think this ingrained attribute was a large factor in my choosing the medical profession. I'd always had a thirst for adventure, just not the bravery to do anything that detoured from my incessant planning. All those statistics and procedures with the hidden thrill of surprise was everything I craved.

I think it was also this that spurred me into my time in the army. I need something to break the set in stone habits and impulsive planning that had become my life. My time in the service broke every schedule I knew, built me an new one, than broke it again and so on. To this day, I'll always have time to run.

But even so civilian life has brought up the old habit, if only a fraction of what it once was. But Sherlock's is both different and the same as the army. He can't help but shatter ever schedule I make, but he never rebuilds and new one.

He makes me reckless and impulsive. He makes me do things I'd never consider otherwise.

Within days of meeting him I'd killed a man for Sherlock, and it seems when the mad detective is involved I have the tendency to jump in blind, damn the consequences.

And that's what worries me the most.

Before I can stop myself I'm pulling open the small read boxy, not caring about the things it may contain.

Once again, damning the consequences.

**Alright, there it is. What did you think? YA. NA… I'd love to hear from you. Every review gets me as excited as Sherlock series three did! (Alright perhaps I'm exaggerating just a bit….) Thanks for reading….BYYYYYE!**


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